


Blinded by the lights

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bruce Wayne Does Not Adopt Jason Todd, Human Trafficking, Jason Todd is Not Red Hood, M/M, Not Beta Read, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Think of it like this: he doesn't find it funny when he puts all his weight behind the hit with the tire iron, when he runs away feeling like the devil's on his back. When he gets caught, he thinks of all the kids before him who were caught and they never returned. They never returned. They never returned. They never returned. They never—Stop thinking about it.
Relationships: Harvey Dent/Jason Todd, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	Blinded by the lights

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my wips since FOREVER and I'm glad I finally had the chance to finish it! I simply love the idea of Jason being adopted by other people who are not Bruce Wayne, and thus he never becomes Robin. 
> 
> (And since he isn't Robin, he also doesn't die at a terribly young age, which means there's no Lazarus Pit influence on him to beef him up—so he's of shorter height than in comics canon!)
> 
> The Harvey/Jason is of pre-relationship nature, closer to a crush than anything else.

**Blinded by the lights**

Think of it like this: he's just a poor boy dragging his paper toy with a dirty string from puddle to puddle. He laughs and in the sound stars shine, fireworks explode, universes collide. He laughs and he does that in sickness, one that settles cozy deep in the lungs. He's just a poor boy dirty in the streets, living among shredded trash bags, half crumbling buildings, cardboard boxes wet with the rain, and he's not the first nor the last. He's one among millions.

Think of it like this: his story isn't new and it's not a tear-jerker. You'd run out of hands sooner rather than later trying to count the number of stories like his that you've heard about. Poor, dirty boy that lives in every street. He knows that to many he's an evil needed in every society. Hundreds that are cast out so that the good people can live in commodity. 

He still thinks that's bullshit, who's to say who's good and who's not. The girls and boys in every corner that seem to exist everywhere around the world, they are good, they are bad, they are hungry and sometimes systemic hunger is what makes you bad.

Think of it like this: he doesn't find it funny when he puts all his weight behind the hit with the tire iron, when he runs away feeling like the devil's on his back. When he gets caught, he thinks of all the kids before him who were caught and they never returned. They never returned. They never returned. They never returned. They never—

Stop thinking about it.

A bag's thrown over his head after he's hauled into the back of a van.

This story isn't new.

In the frightened bird of his heartbeat, he gasps and shakes, listens to the music coming from the front, the chatter, the laughter. He's stiff as a rock, lonely, scared, dirty poor boy, he's scared and wishing for mom, fuck, even dad, wishing for a known evil instead of the one that comes.

The van hits a literal bump on the road, makes him roll from the spot he was thrown against towards the other wall, and he hits his head against something hard, he hits his head and his already faded to black vision finally goes out.

He comes to when he's in a cage, a big one, or it could be, but it's so filled with other kids to the point it's almost bursting. Next to him there are two little things on the cold concrete floor, eyes closed, chests barely moving. He blinks twice and when he looks again they have stopped.

Two minutes later a disgruntled guy comes in, carrying a big piece hung across his chest, looks at the scene and tsks. A pay cut, he says, they won't like that, he says, and he walks away like here there isn't an atrocity to witness. Maybe there isn't, maybe one atrocity cancels the other and so there's nothing left to be worried about.

Next thing happens a day later and they are all filthy. The stench is impossible to tolerate and it's keeping most of them awake. A gaggle of guys with those big metal pieces and masks covering all but their eyes, they all walk in, divide them in groups, they see his bright blue eyes and laugh loudly, maybe there won't be a pay cut, they say. For some reason he's angry and he spits at the one who's closest, kicks him in the dick and makes a break for the open cage door.

The devil's always in the details, he trips on the leg of a kid who hasn't moved for the last three hours, and they catch him. Again.

He's been in near pitch-black lack of light for what  _ feels _ like months, sat on his butt, knees to his chest, back hunched forward so his head doesn't hit the roof of the wooden crate. He's been crying too, and now his mouth is dry and his eyes burn. He'd cry more, but he needs water. He's beginning to fall asleep and he shakes himself awake, afraid that he'll be another of those kids that fell into slumber to never wake up from their dreams again.

The unthinkable happens next: the top of the crate is wrenched open and, nearly blinded by sudden light, all he sees is a shiny head, hands that reach out for him. Grab him right under his armpits to lift him up, high enough for him to hear  _ "got you, kiddo, got you, those mean bad fellas hit real good, but I got you, come, come, we gotta go." _

By the time he can fully see again, there's a blanket over him, he's held in strong arms, and the warehouse gets further and further away.

Think of it, how incredible it is:

The guy has tattoos covering both arms and shoulder blades, some up his neck, none in his face. He always has a gentle dusting of a beard he never lets grow beyond that, he laughs high and thin. His hair is short, buzzed, and deep dark brown.

The kid he rescued looks at him like he's a whole new world. The tiny hand is cold in the guy's bigger and warmer one, but it fits nicely, it fits like it belongs there and the guy thinks of his own dad.

_ Old man, I will make you proud at last. _

He's clean from the bath, he's got new clothes that actually fit, new socks, new shoes, and in front of him on the table there's a warm plate of homemade food. He looks at the tattooed guy in open and indiscreet awe.

"Can I eat this?" he asks because it's hard to believe. It feels like it's his birthday or christmas, or the two things mashed together.

"Yeah kiddo," the guy grins, sits by his side with his own plate, "eat as much as you want!"

"Jason," he says then because he owes this guy this new life, and so his name is just the start of his retribution. "I'm Jason."

There's a glossy, emotional look in the guy's face. He fails at fighting back a smile, too, and he clears his throat twice before he's ruffling Jason's hair with all the love and affection Jason only ever felt from his mom.

"Well, Jason," the guy's smile is watery and happy, "I'm León. And I'm adopting you."

León and Jason move a lot. Never out of Gotham, because that's where business is at, but from south to north and east to west within its boundaries. Jason changes schools a couple of times, he learns fast and as much as he can, even half of what he shouldn't. He makes friends but they never go play at his house. It's the most perfect Jason's ever been because he's got food, clean clothes and a bed.

He's yet to call León dad, but they are getting closer to it. León has been calling him son since day two. He has never stopped.

One late afternoon Jason comes back to his house's door kicked in and the table broken in four. His heart runs a mile a second and his voice is caught in his throat—so he reaches for the hidden knife León has taught him how to use should he ever need to defend himself again, sticks his back to the wall and walks on light feet. Not making any sound.

But Jason forgets all that when he sees León thrown inside a chipped and cracked bathtub, legs dangling from the edge, and the room is small so there's no one that could be hiding and it's just that, that's just, it's—

"Dad!" Jason screams out, running forward and leaning over the tub to look at his dad's face who is looking back at him with a small and pained smile.

"Hey there, sunshine," he says, hands pressed to his bloody side, "call an ambulance for me?"

Jason never leaves his dad's side. There's a nice nurse who brings him candy, juice, old toys, to keep him cheered up while his dad is being patched up. After that, he goes to the room, sits in that awful chair, falls asleep by León's bedside while holding on for dear life onto his hand.

It takes him a couple of hours to wake up and then the cops are there, say they just wanna talk, wanna know what happened, who did it and why. León squeezes Jason's hand, replies easily that he doesn't know the guys, yeah there were two, he thinks, never seen them before, they wanted to take the tv but he didn't let them, that's all.

Jason knows his dad is lying.

At night, while Jason is pretending to be asleep so dad will stop nagging him about his homework, they have another visitor. This one wears all black and he's so dangerous that the air feels electrified.

León never budges.

"Think of your son," the man says at last.

"I am." A moment of silence. Jason keeps his eyes closed but he's struggling with a rogue smile. "Now get the hell outta here before my kid wakes up."

————

There's a survival guide for your average thug trying to make ends meet in a place as unforgiving as Gotham's lower belly. It's all about keeping your head above its murky waters. It's also all about making sure the bosses never ever remember your name, apparently.

Pa is teaching him how to assemble and disassemble a gun in a matter of seconds, the aiming took less than a day to teach, the rest is just training. He's old enough to know this, that's the reasoning. He can move on from knives and blunt force.

"Two Face is ok," dad says and Jason nods, committing this to memory too, "Penguin? Not so much. Riddler's best, better benefits. Gives dope bonuses, doesn't get too mad if you need to take some sick time off, all that. Ivy, well, she ain't Riddler but she's better than Penguin and Two Face. Plus, she smells nice."

"Catwoman?" Jason asks while practicing with his own rifle until he can go through the motions without looking.

"Nah," dad gives a sideways smile, ruffles his hair, "she hardly ever hires anyone that ain't her, but she's nice to look at, ain't she?"

"Don't know," Jason admits, lowering his eyes and staring at his hands holding the weapon, "how does her skin breathe in that suit? Is it really practical? Well, I guess it is, but it doesn't seem to have pockets… Doesn't she get cold, dad?"

"Who knows," with a shrug, both guns are set on the table. A moment in silence goes by, and then Jason lifts his eyes to find dad looking at him, serious expression on his face. "Listen, son: if you can avoid it,  _ never _ work for Black Mask. Only if you're desperate, ok?"

"Okay," Jason squirms a little, his fingers twitch on top of the tablecloth, "anyone else?"

"Yes. Joker." There's the sound of car wheels screeching against the broken pavement outside. "Never,  _ never, _ work for him. Even if you're hungry. Even if the pay's good. Promise me this, sonny. Promise."

He nods. Gulps. Nods again.

"Promise, dad."

———— 

For his nineteenth birthday, Jason buys his first pinstripe suit with his own hard earned money. León goes with him, helps him choose the right shoes, ones that look good and that won't be a pain while running.

"Boots," Jason hums, eyeing the heel they have. He could stand for adding a bit of height to himself. He's barely taller than his dad as it is, and height is often used as an intimidation factor. But mainly, he's not too fond of people towering over him if he can help it.

"Nice," dad grins proudly, and those are happy tears in his eyes.

Jason looks at him and smiles.

They work together. They always do. Pa always looks out for him, Jason always looks out for León in return. Two Face laughs whenever he's in the room with them but it's not a mean thing, not when it mostly sounds amused. _ A duo to defeat a duo, _ he says, and León grins as if he likes the idea but Jason can tell the gesture is forced.

All in all, they are as safe as they can be when Jason proves their worth by blowing up all expectations.

No one boiling in Gotham's underbelly is a better shot than he is. And he turns this fact into a well known thing, makes sure the respect he earns for himself translates onto his dad. When they inevitably end up with different tasks, they both are sure the chances of backstabbing are kept to a minimum.

Another guy in charge of security, Martin, likes Jason well enough to share a smoke with him. He takes it, inhales deeply, lets it run smoothly out. This isn't his first one, neither the last.

When he goes to give it back, he finds that his mouth is object of sudden interest. Jason's eyes crinkle then, irises buzzing with light, and he lets his smile curl into something teasing, takes another drag of the cigarette before releasing the smoke slow, slower, slowly.

"Anything you want?" he hums and laughs when the kiss is planted with desperation upon his lips.

These are simply perks of the job.

When the big bad Bat comes around, knocks out a bunch, breaks one too many limbs, leaves them writhing in pain, Jason doesn't feel fear. No, he's more busy being pissed off because among them is Adrian and they were supposed to go out tonight. And over there, crying over her broken knees, is Emma, she's here because she's gotta put her siblings through college and this job is  _ actually _ effective, unlike any other. Emma didn't even kill anyone, for fuck's sake!

He leaves his position to give this costumed asshole a piece of his mind. Rifle hanging on his back, dual guns in his hands, he reaches the ground floor in record time. He even has the Bat's chirpy side piece in perfect line of sight—none of them have spotted him yet.

Because it really takes one time of being captured, just the once, to learn how to stay hidden for good when it counts.

Jason breathes in slowly, silently. Takes aim, feels both chill and warmth shooting through his spine like thunder. This is for Adrian. This is for Emma. This is for himself. His chance at proving himself—at making sure he'll have a reputation no one can doubt. Making sure it'll be enough to keep dad safe.

His fingers are on the triggers.

He's ready.

He presses and—

A loud crash coming from his side alerts both masked nuisances, there's the kicking up of dust, the going off of smoke bombs. His shot goes through as planned but not quite, pierces past a cloud with no solid body in it, bullet landing on the wall.

Seconds later, the scene clears up. The Bat is all gone. Doesn't mean the anger ever leaves.

———— 

By the time getting hired again starts getting a bit tricky, nearly two years have gone by and León is getting a bit angsty. He's trying to focus his energy into new crafts, like painting, but he lacks the patience to keep practicing. Sculpting fills part of the quota, but the truth is, they are getting nowhere and money isn't easy to find. The Bat and those who work with him are making things harder than they need to be, really.

Jason's watching his dad sitting under the sun, book open on his lap but forgotten, and he appreciates the moment for one more minute, allows it to exist in peace. Then the minute is over and they both have to face reality. They need to find a job.

"I've heard," he says, aware that even though dad appears to be sleeping, the man's wide awake, "Black Mask is hiring."

León sighs.

"If we do this," he begins with and Jason steps closer, still not blocking the sun, "you gotta be careful. Don't get too close to him."

"Got it," Jason pats his dad's shoulder, rests his hand there, "I won't."

They get assigned to different tasks within the same day of being recruited, which means they can’t be there to look out for each other. It’s mostly alright, because by now Jason’s a truly grown boy, or, more accurately, a well developed  _ man, _ and he trusts in his dad’s ability of staying safe even when the situation calls for anything but. Out of the two, the one that truly looked uncertain had been León. He had hesitated for a moment, looked at Jason for the extension of it, as if trying to convey with his eyes his worry. But they exchanged no words. 

Words are weapons they cannot afford to lose. Let them run free and sooner than you expect it, they’ll come back to kill you with vengeance.

Now Jason stands in the hallway, recently lit smoke dangling from his lips, and for the first time in the very long night he begins to allow onto his shoulders a subtle line of relaxation. Everyone’s pretty solid around here, even if it’s nothing to sing about and he kind of misses working for Two Face. Yet beggars can’t be choosers, even if he ain’t begging here. No one is ever going to force a  _ please _ out of his lips.

This moment is, of course, when out of the main office a guy with some kind of fetish gear on his face comes out, body language screaming his frustration. The bastard zeroes in on Jason in the fraction of a second and Jason is already taking the cigarette out of his mouth, putting out the lit end against the sole of his boot and shoving the stick back inside his jacket pocket. The whole ordeal probably takes him a handful of seconds, which is exactly the amount of time it takes for the kinky asshole to walk the length of the hallway and stop right in front of him. Jason isn’t impressed in the least. He’s been subjected to the sensation of being afraid before, and this is far from even coming close to that.

(You want to put the fear of whatever into someone? Ditch the mask. Look a whole lot like Harvey Dent on a bad day after a bad week preceding a bad month. Have him smile at you mockingly, menacingly, as he throws in your face a greased envelope with wrinkled bills. Then listen to him say you are useless to him, worth less than shit, when you can't shoot either Batman or Nightwing for good.)

(He hasn't forgotten. And he has made sure to  _ learn. _ No one turns his age after a lifetime in the business without mastering a trick or two.)

"New guy," the idiot speaks and Jason fights back a smile as he stares at the closed zipper over the mouth. Lucky he himself hasn't been forced into wearing one. He doesn't think it'd go with his style. He knows for sure he’s not quite in a position to say no if they ever ask him to put on one. "Boss calls. Now."

"If he asks so nicely," with a nod, he only smiles when his line of sight is now the bastard's back of the neck, "then I gotta heed the boss' call, don't I?"

Creed, who was standing close to him, hears this and shakes his head—does a motion with his hand to indicate, huh, a throat being cut open. Jason gives Creed one of his honest smiles and promises to himself he'll do something nice for the poor man in return. Maybe offer him one of his cigarettes, or give him an unopened pack, who knows.

As he steps through the large doors, Jason hears the voice of his dad in the back of his mind. Some kind of foreboding situation, a part of his brain lightning up to let him know he better buckle up. The promise he made echoing off and alerting him. The promise he made and that he can’t keep. Dad will surely understand. It was all good while it lasted. It's not like he can go directly against orders during the very first day of business.

Besides, a bigger part of him still doesn't quite get what's so bad about this man. Yeah, he seems to be awfully open and proud of his kinks and all that, but hell, this is Gotham, weirder stuff happens all the time. Plus, he's sure it can't be worse than the year and a half they worked for Penguin, or that one time job for some rich bastard, or those (nearly) two years without a job.

Appearances don't faze him. He isn't squeamish around blood, injury or basically anything else.

There must be something else.

And then he's in the office, the doors closing behind his back. The guy who came to fetch him doesn't stay by his side. The poor bastard walks all the way near the large, imposing desk, whispers something, all the while the big bad boss has yet to look away from Jason's face. Like he's seeing something from the past. Like he's seeing something he knows (owns).

There's a tiny alarm bell beginning to ring off in Jason's mind.

"You're the new guy," Black Mask speaks with all the air and energy of someone who is extremely used to riches and power but that doesn't see the point in being obnoxious about it. Yes, he's a showoff, but he's not snotty or bratty, which is more than can be said about many. "I've been told you're good with guns."

Jason twitches with the need to be a dickhead about it. He doesn't give in because he knows it will get him nowhere good. He's not an idiot. He can spot a living red flag when he sees one. So he settles for:

"I am, sir," the last word leaves a bitter aftertaste at the back of his tongue. He's never been one to stick to formalities, but—there's something about this guy, something about the deadly energy of him, that's keeping Jason on his metaphorical toes. 

With the need of trying to pinpoint what he's missing, he shoots a cursory glance through the expanse of the room. The four other masked hired muscle are all looking at him, though their bodies are still mostly facing their boss. A shiver runs down Jason's spine then, a slow sinuous thing that makes his skin crawl. It's only a second before he's got his eyes back on the figure sitting by the desk, yet it feels like in that minimal time frame he missed something important.

Jason's beginning to reassess his hasty conclusions about this guy just as dad's voice begins echoing over and over inside his head. Something needs to be said, though. He should be opening his mouth again. Keep talking, give the smarmy bastard in the good suit something to stop the man from dissecting him any further.

"Need me to shoot someone already?"

If that was the right thing to say, it's unclear. It  _ does _ make Black Mask laugh, penetrating eyes never looking away from Jason—they are set firm on his face just like a predator locks eyes with its prey. Jason hasn't truly been prey in a long long time. He certainly doesn't like the feeling coming back. He doesn't like the energy—that kind of staring doesn't sit well with him. Then again, it wouldn't sit well with  _ anyone _ within their right mind. 

He feels like there's something  _ huge _ he's not seeing. Something he should know for his own safety. A piece of knowledge that will keep him alive.

It's not like he can ask.

And it's not like he's never jumped into situations with less than half the things he should know in order to survive.

"You're cocky, aren't you?," Black Mask says in the same seconds he stands up, behind him an enormous window showcasing the glittering lights of upscale Gotham against a backdrop of smoke, smog and darkness. It is fitting, the danger lurking among those who believe themselves above it and mingling with those who love to deliver it. For some reason, Jason can't picture Black Mask with the lowest of the low. There's this thing that’s different. An unclear, serrated edge.

With each step Black Mask gives, Jason stands his ground. He doesn't gulp, he doesn't twitch, his breathing doesn't speed up—all of that, though, is thanks to his determination. His control. 

His skin is crawling under his suit and his hands are getting just a little sweaty. Pushing down the urge to get the fuck away is hard. But he can't afford a single moment of weakness.

Jason tilts his chin slightly upwards so that he's not looking up at this dangerous bastard. Even with the extra height added by the heeled boots, he's still shorter. He's never going to be the smaller man in the room, though. And he's certainly not going to give this new boss any leverage over him as long as he can do something about it.

Black Mask doesn't stop until they are face to face, centimetres keeping them from stepping on each other. Jason only has to breathe in and the other's cologne fills his lungs, leaving him unsure, like he's been caught in a bad position, scent clogging up his airways. The air of the room is cracking with expectation, awaiting the moment the lightning strikes down on them, electrocutes everyone and leaves just one man in an expensive suit standing. The silence is all encompassing. Until—

"My, my," leaning closer, gloved hand reaching out to hold Jason by the chin, Black Mask speaks with the voice of a predator who's just gotten what he's always wanted. "Bright blue eyes, hmm?"

Jason can barely breathe. He's growing tense, muscles locking up and leaving him ready for a fight. Bad idea, he tells himself. Awfully bad idea.

The door opens right behind him.

"Sir," someone with a firm voice speaks and breaks whatever spell they were all under. Black Mask's grip on Jason's face tightens for a moment, still the hand never moves away. "The shipment you were waiting for just arrived."

"Excellent," he says, slow grin expanding across the sound of his voice, true expression covered by the mask. Jason's beginning to hate masks. They are turning out to be the true bane of his existence. "Ready all arrangements. This new toy will be joining us for the drive."

_ Toy, _ Jason’s eyebrow shoots up. It’s all he lets himself do in response to that.

_ Toy. _

He’s now beginning to understand the worry León had.

The car is black and sleek. Expensive, really, something Jason’s not used to seeing this up close and personal. He’s never traveled with the boss before.

From among the other recruits he spots his dad in between them, or, well, he’s found by León's sight and he notices it shortly after. There are no traces of sureness in dad’s expression. He doesn’t even smile his way. It’s haunting, actually, and it makes Jason gulp, it causes his heart to beat a little faster. 

Because he gets what dad is seeing. And he can guess part of what dad is thinking. Standing right next to the boss during the first day of work is not just strange. It’s simply and directly unheard of.

It is also damning when Black Mask—when  _ Roman Sionis _ turns to him with eyes that chase him down to his very soul, shake up his core, leave him breathless and off-balance. It’s a curse when Roman reaches out to him, hand not meeting his shoulder but the space right in between his scapula, firm pressure that expands heat even through the fabric of a leather glove and the jacket of a suit.

“Don’t stand so far away,  _ Jason _ ,” Roman speaks, lips behind the mask almost brushing the crown of his head. The space between them is a battle of tugging and pulling, of pushing and pressing, of wanting and avoiding. So far, the boss is winning. But this is hardly a fair fight.

“I don’t need to be glued to you to do my job,” he says, snarl curling into his voice faster than he can control it. The fingers on his back press a little harder, wrinkle the fabric of his jacket. Jason’s quick to add, “Sir.” 

It makes Roman smile.

"I  _ love _ fast learners," and he leans in closer still, so close Jason's struggling to stay sharp and focused, "you'll be a good  _ pet _ to have."

Maybe it's the sense of dread kicking in, or maybe it's something else. But Jason's quite sure what Roman said wasn't quite what he meant. Men like him don't content themselves with just  _ having. _ Men like Roman prefer to go above and beyond simple ownership. This isn't an admission that he owns Jason, of course. Jason isn't someone to be had.

The thing is, men like Roman—men like  _ Black Mask _ aren't caretakers. What they have, they  _ break. _

Sure, the mere idea of actually breaking a person is laughable. People can't be broken.

That still doesn't mean Roman won't give it his very best try.

That still doesn’t mean the skin under Roman’s intense touch doesn’t feel like it’s burning or like there isn’t a thread of shame clinging to Jason’s cheeks. When he has no other option, really, but to follow the stern hand on his back guiding him into the car, he can’t help the sharp look he sends his father. Looking for something to tether himself fully back into this present. But he never quite manages to see León in the crowd. Not even when the doors are closed and the tinted windows are rolled all the way up. Not even when they are driving away.

Jason’s mouth is dry. The guns under his jacket, the dagger strapped to his ankle and the rifle in his hands will have to do it. They will have to be enough. Especially when Roman leans into him with silent laughter, when his gloved hand doesn’t even work its way up his leg, landing directly on the inside of his thigh, too high up to be considered anything else but degrading and demanding.

He doesn’t look down. Or away. He turns his head, faces Roman full on and has no option except dealing with this bastard having the benefit of a full face mask. Jason wants to rip it off. He wants to destroy it.

“Sir,” his tone is barely curt enough and the line of his mouth tugging in a grimace betrays him. But who can blame him? Roman doesn’t really look back. He only offers a sharp chuckle, definite, as his fingers press in  _ hard, _ squeeze Jason’s thigh for too long of a second before letting go.

It’s not a win. Not a win at all. Jason’s not dumb enough to pretend otherwise.

Standing by the boss’ side, weapon in hand and looking as menacing as he can when his head is running through a million and one things, he’s definitely not prepared when he sees just  _ who _ Black Mask is doing business with. He holds his breath for a second though he never breaks his stride nor posture and, with all the things going on around them, hopefully neither of the powerful men standing in close distance noticed this little faux pas. And maybe it works, because  _ Harvey Dent, _ Two Face, never looks at him, never says anything about past loyalties or fuck ups. The two of them posture so hard in a successful attempt at looking like bigger versions of themselves, a deadly rapport that they both know how to handle more than well. 

He thinks he sees movement in one of the roofs near them. He sends a sharp glance there, squints his eyes to try and differentiate general lack of light from shadows, which ones come from bodies, which ones move. His grip on the rifle tightens and that turns him into the new subject of attention. He looks back with sharp eyes. There’s recognition in Harvey’s face now. It’s obvious and easy to see and Jason is too aware of the gears in Roman’s head turning at a slightly different tune.

“A duo to defeat a duo,” Dent speaks with a slow smile curling over the scarred side of his face. Something that’s not quite a promise. Something that’s far from safe. “Good to see you’re still in this business, kid.”

Jason suppresses a shiver. He nods, voice caught in his throat, trembling with the handful of fantasies he’s had of this moment because, yes, he  _ might _ have a  _ thing _ for his ex-boss but that means nothing, even less than nothing when the moment is ruined by the mere presence of the scumbag by his side. Still, he remains professional about it, mostly because he really has to, and shifts his posture just slightly, standing more directly in the line of fire should anyone really be waiting for their chance on the rooftop directly across. See, he’s only doing this for Dent. Roman can get shot. For being an utter creep and all.

“I am,” his voice is finally back in control with only a flutter or two in the pulse right behind his ears. It’s impossible to ignore the way Roman’s staring at him. He feels the heat all over his skin; and then there’s also the interested hum Harvey lets out.

A scoff with barely disguised disgust ruins the moment however. “Not that this…  _ reunion _ hasn’t been fun,” Sionis’ hand lands firmly on the small of Jason’s back, skirting slightly lower after a second, “but I believe we are done here, hm?”

Harvey actually  _ laughs. _

“Ah, Roman,” there’s a glint in his eye that promises blood and exposed fractures, “possessive as always.” The hand on Jason’s lower back presses in firm, firmly, fingers curling in, and Jason only responds by glancing towards the roof again. Better detach himself from this situation before he actually feels like dying. “Very well,” Dent sends him a look anyways, in the fraction of a second changing the edges of his expression. There’s humour there, humour and interest.

Jason does really like that look.

Which is why it is precisely in that moment, the one moment his guard goes only a millimeter down, when something whooshes past them, lodging itself firmly into a nearby crate. The color and sound of the object are a dead giveaway for him, these are the things he’s never allowed himself to forget considering they have cost him so much—friends, possible dates,  _ jobs. _ The warning comes out of his lips faster than anyone else can react, and he’s pushing both Two Face and Black Mask away while he’s also trying to shield himself from the smoke emanating from the fucking  _ batarang. _

These things must happen to him because he’s Jason (Todd) Ortega and Batman doesn’t want him getting possibly laid. That must be the real reason. This is why Gotham is the bad place.

Among all the shouting, he covers Roman as they rush back to the car. He does his best to ignore the bittersweet pang resting heavy on his tongue or anything else that might get him slightly off his game. He’s got something to prove. And he also has bills to pay. So the boss has to remain decently protected and he’s got some shooting to do—some redemption to achieve. His own name and abilities to get squeaky clean again, like his pop’s whities or the few non-cracked dishes they keep stored for special occasions.

The smoke clears out. Roman’s shouting at the driver, the rasp in his voice making for an intolerable  _ drive, you fucking idiot, drive. _ The tires screech against the wet pavement and the car jerks into motion, not wasting a second to steer clear of the site where they’ve been caught red handed. Even then, business was done and both parties got what they came here for—here’s to hoping none of that is lost to the hands of these goody two shoes. 

Jason looks outside his window and sees movement on the roof lining up on his side. Black and blue and fast. A memory of failure rings loud and clear in his ears and for a second it’s like the entire world stops: he can hear the pounding of his heart right behind his ears, pulse fast and anxious and doused with adrenaline; his own breathing somehow even, deceptively calm with the storm raging inside him. When he focuses again, his mind is clear.

They are being followed and no one else has picked up on this yet. They are being followed, Jason tells himself, vendetta itching in his veins, and such a thing cannot be allowed.

All instinct, he quickly grabs his rifle that had rolled under the seat during all the commotion, rolling down the window and taking aim in a matter of seconds. Black and blue keeps running, never seems to lose steam. Jason knows he will only have one chance at taking this shot. At making his name  _ known _ and, above everything else,  _ respected. _

So Jason takes a deep breath. Takes into consideration the movement of the car, the speed and force of the wind, the projected trajectories of all bodies involved. 

His finger presses down on the trigger.

And he takes his shot.

There’s something about the look on León’s face when the news spreads. Jason doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know what it means, and he certainly doesn’t get the chance to ask about it when he’s shoved into the boss’ office, big doors closing behind his back.

_ Nightwing shot down. Falling through a gap between buildings. _

He did sense a bit of reverence in the others when he heard them say:

_ Nightwing shot down while in movement. _

I didn’t kill him, is what he wants to say. I didn’t manage to shoot him in the head. He swallows the words because he knows they will fall on deaf ears at best, make people feel irritation at worst. If he wants his work here to go on smoothly, the latter is one of the things he needs to avoid. So he stays quiet, keeps his hands clasped behind his back to cover how they have started to shake a little. Better to hide all weaknesses now that he’s back in this wretched room again with no one else to act as a buffer between Roman and him.

For some reason, he starts to develop the sneaky suspicion that maybe he should’ve failed that shot. Maybe he should’ve tried harder to stay out of Roman’s radar. Maybe neither he nor his pa should’ve taken this job at all.

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me, Jason,” and he grabs two short crystal glasses, too many details engraved on their surface to show off just how expensive they are. Next comes the bottle of scotch, the pouring, the clinking of ice as the liquid falls. It’s all performative. It’s also very effective. “I knew you’d be a great asset to have.”

When Roman turns to look at him, Jason struggles not to seize, not to turn away and break his way out of this room. That look is not the one of a good promise like Dent’s had been, no. Those eyes and that smile only promise things he knows more than well he does not want. Not from this bastard. Not with such danger.

And yet he still takes the glass when it’s offered, holds it in his hand and stares down at it for a second, two, in a vain attempt to gather his thoughts and calm down his erratic pulse. Outside there are the blinking lights of the other skyscrapers and towers, of the cars racing through the highways and the bridges coming in and out of the city. There are still a few hours left till dawn. When Roman steps closer to him, when the asshole grabs him by the chin, Jason thinks that if he can make it to dawn, he can survive anything.

Perhaps he’s not so wrong.

Towering over him, Sionis' smile has the edge of a scalpel when he studies Jason’s face, when he swipes his gloved thumb over the plush of his bottom lip. The silence outside is deafening, more than the silence inside him when all his thoughts and fears come to a screeching pause.

“I’ve always wanted a good pet with bright blue eyes,” Roman speaks and it’s barely above a whisper, his breath washing over Jason. It’s not lost on either of them the way the latter swallows dryly, how his adam’s apple bobbles in his throat. Here is something that’s yet to be shown, peering through the thinnest of veils—until Roman himself tears it to shreds. “Property was stolen from me once, Jason. Did you know that?”

He swallows again, barely registering the clinking of the ice inside the glass he’s still holding as his pulse betrays him. “No, sir.”

It’s now dawn yet.

It seems like dawn will never come. Not for him. Not this time.

Taking one final step closer until their chests touch with each inhale and each exhale, Roman squeezes his chin, pressing his thumb into Jason’s mouth, forcing him to taste the leather infused with remains of tobacco and gunpowder. And his grin is all teeth now, sharp, deadly,  _ precise. _ Looming over him like a predator that has its prey right where it's needed, one second away from tearing into tender flesh with fangs and claws—not stopping until the very bones are left exposed. For some reason, when Jason tries to jerk away from the hold, when he tries to put distance between them again, his body does not cooperate. Like he’s stuck here, in this patch of the blood red carpet, vulnerable and free for the claiming.

The mere thought makes him dizzy.

“Do you know what that property looked like,” and he is going in for the kill, leaning closer to drag his teeth over an earlobe, to whisper, to seal the deal, “Jason?”

Jason’s voice is all gone. It cracks around the thumb in his mouth, deflates and disappears into the thin air between them. And he shakes his head, knowing now will come his doom.

Like he’s back inside a wooden crate, covered in sweat and dirt and with a burning chest that does not let him scream anymore.

“Bright blue eyes, Jason,” Roman says, laughing, “a kid with bright blue eyes.”

The carpet is a fine choice for this room.

When he drops his glass, it does not shatter, it does not go off like a bomb.

And all the liquids that spill get forever lost in its thickness. Like an ocean of red that only knows how to drown.


End file.
